Australia
by Sky Blue Angel
Summary: Chase and Foreman are sent to Australia to search a patient’s home. There things are learned, re-learned, notice and thought. Chase/Foreman


Chase was still shocked that House had ordered him (and Foreman, but that had seemed like an afterthought) to Australia

Chase was still shocked that House had ordered him (and Foreman, but that had seemed like an afterthought) to Australia. A new patient, suffering what was not vasculitis, drug use or medical mistake, had been from out of town. Though that had been nothing new, they'd soon ruled all almost all the infections anyone had suggested, thought of, disagreed with and threw onto the white board with general dismay. So House had shoved plane tickets into his hand and told him to go home. Her home, to be more specific. Foreman had met him at the airport, waving a ticket and holding a laptop bag. They hadn't really needed to talk, settling beside each other in what had to be the most uncomfortable seats in the world. They had a few laughs about heading out of the country and leaving home and House. But by the time the plane was ready to take-off, neither of them had anything else to say.

Their seats had somehow managed to be next to each other. While Chase wondered if House had planned that, Foreman settled in. While he couldn't turn his laptop on, the seat was no longer in an upright position when they took off. Chase found himself smirking and wondering how often Foreman got away under the radar. But, before those thoughts got too common, he settled down to plan. It was a day trip, or as close as it came. Fly out, fly back twelve hours later. Time to search her room and board the next flight. Nothing else, unless he planned to cut it close. And there was reason to do that, though Foreman would have disagreed.

His father's phone number sat in his pocket, written on a napkin when he'd thought of it first thing in the morning. It wasn't programmed into his mobile. That was a step he didn't want to take. Forgiveness was one thing. Seeing that name every time he flipped through his phone book was another. But he was going to be there, on the same island, in the same city. With an hour or so of free time, if he was lucky. Not like Foreman would hold him back or anything. The other man probably had a collection of music, medical textbooks and patient records on the laptop. The call most likely wouldn't be clear until they landed, though he still palmed the mobile.

14 hours, two naps, three amusing video clips, 4 sound bites and one Foreman-caused drool stain on his shoulder and Chase wasn't ready to get off the plane. The drool on his shoulder was still fanned over by cool breath, ruffling his shirt and ruining his… not-so impeccable clothing. Thankfully, no one would question a traveler with a wet spot and a few wrinkles. After another moment of guilty pleasure enjoyment (a guilty pleasure he never would have guessed, at that) Chase knew they had to go. even the elderly passengers were beginning to trickle off the plane, dragging carry-on luggage behind them.

"Foreman?" His voice was surprisingly quiet, one hand resting on the other man's leg. "We've arrived. Time to put our degrees to use." A few of the elderly passengers gaped at Foreman's response to that, which included a lot of snorting laughter and a look that would have withered most any else. Chase just rolled his eyes and pushed out of the chair. Foreman made a sound Chase could barely hear as his head was knocked off his shoulder, something he was not going to think about.

"How many years of college does it take to break in a foreign house, again?" Which is, Chase knows, a rhetorical question. And it doesn't seem worth it to try to answer, so he just shoulders his bag and flashes Foreman a smile before starting down the aisle. No one's left on the plane but them a few flirtatious flight attendants. All the girls smile at Chase, waving and playing with their hair. Foreman snorts, nudges his side and pushes past. "We've got somewhere to be." And Chase nods, waving to the women and heading off the plane. The oldest slips him a napkin, her phone number scrawled across the top in lipstick and scented with perfume. He gives her a smile and drops the napkin in a trash can as he leaves.

"What's the address?" Once they're out on the street, Chase's accent sounding normal, Foreman turned to him. They hadn't brought any real luggage, just carry on bags and a few medical supplies. Doctor certificates and Chase's passport had gotten them past any trouble. The street was none too crowded, mostly empty save tourists looking for their hotels and a few Australians heading to work. Chase tugged the address out of his pocket, handing the neatly folded notebook paper to Foreman.

"That. Two streets…" He took a moment to reacquaint himself with the familiar streets and sights. "that way." Foreman followed him without question, glancing around at the different stores and snorting when a Starbucks came into sight. Chase just glared and turned away. The napkin in his pocket had chafed his hand when he'd grabbed the address, a reminder that he had some other business to attend to, if there was time. He almost considered getting them lost, taking a wrong turn and wasting just enough hours to miss the plane if he goes to his father.

But somehow Foreman can find his way better than Chase would have bet for an American. He didn't accept street smarts as an explanation, glaring at the other man and questioning his 'never been out of the country' status. They found the flat in record time, standing at very clean looking door in a not-very-clean looking building. The inside was far worse than the outside, covered in a thin layer of dust and some dirt.

"She's been in the US for a while now, hasn't she?" Chase kept his voice a murmur, glancing around the decrepit and abandoned home. "Nothing here but us fishes." The fish were quite dead though, tiny goldfish floating on their backs in filthy water. Chase leaned over the aquarium, dipping a finger into the slime-coated depth. "A long while." And while there was more to say, he found himself cut off by an awkward step and the sudden crash of filthy, disgusting, slimy, green and lack aquarium water (including dead fish) covering his pants. If that wasn't enough to earn and groan and a string of cusswords, Foreman's braying laugh would have thrown him over the edge.

"Let me guess, no change of clothes?" Another snort of laughter and Chase wished his glare was as effective as House's. The only thing his glare earned was a slap on the back, though. Foreman laughed, smile and started into the other room. Still laughing, actually, but by then Chase found he could block that noise out. It was even simpler when the bedroom door closed, leaving him alone in a room that smelled of mold and stagnant water.

He recalled, with faint horror, that his father's number still sat in his pocket. The napkin that he fished out of his pocket was slurred illegible, ink covering his fingertips. No hops of reading the number, not even the faintest of what it had been remained. And though the first three digits stuck in his head, there was nothing more. With a sigh of frustration and a groan as he reminded himself how wet he actually was, the search began again. Dust and algae clung to him as he moved about, trying to figure out if anything there could have caused her illness. Nott hat House would ever admit he found it, even he did. At least Foreman had come along. That almost made it worth it.

"I don't think she's been her recently enough to warrant this investigation." The fridge was empty, the cupboards had a single can of something unrecognizable and more dust that shelf space.

Foreman snorted, slamming the bedroom door closed behind him. "Why would House send us here is he didn't have some suspicion?" Which was a good question, Chase admitted. "On the other hand, he may have figured she'd have some unusual drugs hiding somewhere." Chase gave him a rueful grin, shaking his head. "Or some cock-fighting ring. Or even a boyfriend."

"A girlfriend." He shook his head, closing the cupboard and leaning on the counter. "Well, I don't see a sign of anything but a single woman paying for a flat she's not living in anymore." His watch was still working, though soaking wet and irritating his wrist. "We still have four hours before check-in for the flight. I was going to hunt down some old haunts." It was true enough. The phone number destroyed, Chase was almost saddened he still remembered his father's old address. But it would not be hard to find it, no complications arising from streets that he remembered. "There are a few nice restaurants you may want to try nearby."

"Four hours? And a travel budget. I'll make sure House regrets this." Foreman's laugh echoed over the slam of the door and the crack of some paint falling off the wall. They smiled at each other, shook hands and agreed to meet up in 4 hours time in the airport lounge. Foreman insisted on taking Chase's carry-on bag, citing that he would be 'sitting down, not wandering the entire continent in search of a good beer' which got Chase to snort and ended up with him carrying nothing but a jacket over his shoulder.

The streets hadn't moved since Chase had left, something for which he was inordinately please. Getting lost in search of his childhood's bane would have been too ironic for him to stand, let alone to find his way back to Foreman and not embarrass himself further. But everything had stayed (mostly) the same. A few street names had been lengthened, stores had changed and houses were gone. But at the end of a dead end street stood a mansion, high and built of bricks, windows shining out. It had been so long since he gone there, staring up at the fourth story window, somehow still remembered where the study had been.

But the window was dusty, the lights off. Chase pushed aside a quietly creaking gate, glancing around and wondering exactly what he had missed. His father had never told him he'd sold the house, nor that he had moved. The phone number (the parts he remembered, at least) had matched his memory. But it looked abandoned, vines growing up the side and some birds he couldn't name roosting on the roof. And, with a final glance around before he went to knock on the dust covered door, he saw the sign.

A for sale sign, several actually; dozens covering the lawn. How he missed those, he'll know. But there they are and he didn't notice until he was almost at the door, feet on the first step and nowhere else to go. They're waving in the wind a bit, beckoning him out of ignorance. None of them say it's been sold, none of them say anything but for sale and some small print he can't quite read. It shouldn't matter, not really. The phone number he had was defunct, the only address he knew useless. But there was a company name and a realtor listed and three more hours to waste in his continent.

Bank's Realty was a building that could have been a kiosk if he hadn't seen the doors and window screening it off from the outside world. Building pictures lined the walls inside and out he discovered, lending to an air of desperation. His father's home was easily spotted at the top of one of the rows, the price listed exorbitant and yet perfectly correct. The realtor at the gate smiled up at him, vapid eyes wide and tongue ring clicking against her bleached teeth.

"That old place? Yep, on sale." Another click, another click, another click, still smiling around the movements inside her mouth. Chase didn't know how she could do that. But whatever talent it was, he found it far more annoying than anything House had ever done. "Old owner died, left the money from the house to his only kid. Thing is, he didn't have the address in his will or anything. Just a bank account number. We sell it, money goes there." Click, click, click. Chase wanted to say she'll ruin her teeth doing that. But all he can do is stare. "You want to see it?" The phone's in her hand before he can answer, long fingernails brushing the number pad.

"No, no." He shook his head and backed out of the kiosk, one hand waving in a pattern his frazzled mind wasn't even trying to control. The napkin was still in his wet pocket, still blurred and falling apart as he pulled it out. That phone number wouldn't have done him any good. And he still didn't have it, nothing in his phone to prove he'd tried to do anything. His father was dead. He'd seen him, at the hospital, for the convention, talking to him and asking him when'd he'd be back home. And it obviously wouldn't have mattered.

Rowan Chase never would have left the money from his house to his son unless he knew something was wrong. The mansion would have been left in his name, expecting that he'd hear about the death through official channels. But to simply place money in an account, that was premeditated. The door's slam distracted him for a moment, the secretary glaring at him from between the rows of pictures. He could hear the click of her tongue against glass, metal tapping and he had to go. There was only another hour before the check-in time.

The airport seemed bigger than it had before, Chase staring up and wondering if Foreman had finished his dinner early. The jacket on his shoulder felt heavy. But he couldn't check in without his carry-on bag, tickets sitting in the pouch he hadn't bothered to think to open. With a sigh and a stoic expression carefully fixed on his face, he pushed through the door, dodging a few of the younger tourists. One distinctly fast child rammed into his leg, smiling up and yelping as he ran away. No apology, though Chase didn't think to expect it. No one apologized for wronging someone else. It was something old-fashioned, silly and useless. Why apologize when no one tried to remember, just let it go to memory and left.

Foreman was sitting on a bench, newspaper spread out in lap and Chase's cell pressed to his ear. By the time Chase was standing next to him, perplexed expression obvious and one hand reaching for the phone, the other man had scooted over, hand held up and shooing him away.

"Another date? When was out last one again?" Not that he sounded anything like Chase, even with his attempts at a Australian accent. It sounded much closer to a Beetle trying to imitate a New Yorker than anything else. "And you want another one? Already?" That smirk was almost enough to earn Foreman a slap, Chase's temper dying without a chance to wear thin. He yanked the phone out of Foreman's hand, ignoring the surprised glare and sound.

"Margie?" And he was rewarded with a shriek of accusations as he belatedly remembered that the name was listed on the phone. "Sorry Delia, sorry." Though he didn't sound sorry. She quite obviously knew it, screaming into the phone, cursing and then the slam that forced him to wince away. "Foreman." That was a snarl, his eyes sharpening. "My phone. Personal property, heard of it?"

"It started ringing and you left me in charge of your bag." He laughed and Chase wanted to punch him so badly he could taste it. Iron bitter blood and he dug his teeth into the inside of his cheeks. "Besides, I doubt she thought it was you until, wait, you answered the phone wrong." Which brought another laugh and Foreman was watching him, gauging his response. That wouldn't have bothered him if he hadn't wanted anything but to be watched. He snarled an incoherent response and turned away, grabbing his bag.

Foreman shuffled after him, offering no apologies and no further offenses. Chase discovered, as he handed his ticket to the agent, that he was trembling. Whether it was from losing a nurses affection (unlikely), the death of father (possible) or simply something he couldn't pin down, some uncomfortable feeling he was getting as the crowd's press came closer (he couldn't tell) all he knew was that it had to be hidden. A pointless weakness that couldn't have an affect. The metal detector lines were outrageous, Foreman making quiet jokes into his ear that he struggled not to laugh at, though not too hard.

The empty house still floated in his mind, dust on the window and it looked just like the apartment on the inside, filled with garbage and dead fish. His father would never have kept fish, though. And the cleaning ladies most likely still came, dusting the shelves and cleaning out the sheets. But all Chase saw was a tank of filthy water and the white carpets turning a dark grey. His father's study was devoid of books, empty and covered in a thin layer of filth. Maybe his father had fallen there, head hitting the desk and then there'd been nothing.

Foreman's hand on his shoulder pushed him forward, reminding him that a line waited for no daydreams. And the whispered jokes and observations continue unabated by his lack of response and attention. There was some small comfort in the voice he'd grown used to keep on going. Foreman always talked when they were sent off on their own, complain, observing, stating, whining, anything at as if to make sure Chase paid attention. Cameron said he did the same thing, pointing out reasons and trying put House at fault. They always seemed to talk about each other when they got together, nursing beers and muttering about that last house they'd had to break and that hadn't solved the case. Or had as the case may be. And when they did, the talks were worse, House proving again that they could only miss what he saw.

By the time they were in the lounge and waiting for the plane, they still had an hour to waste and nothing to do. Foreman had a sandwich he'd stuck in his bag, peanut butter and jelly on white bread. Chase had settled for a crossword puzzle. Their conversation was sparse at best, Chase asking for answers and Foreman responding as quickly as Chase asked. And they didn't talk about what they'd done for three hours, or why Foreman had answered Chase's phone. And when the airplane arrived, they tucked their bags into the overhead compartments, settled into the seats and prepared to ignore the movie.

Somehow they ended up with a row to themselves, three seat and no one but the two of them. People started snoring before the flight even took off, the sounds echoing through the corridors and over the pilot's voice. Chase couldn't even concentrate on the crossword puzzle, thoughts and worries and questions crowding into his thoughts. Foreman had settled back to sleep again, eyes shut and newspaper laid on his face. A smile crept onto Chase's face at the first touch of cheek to shoulder, Foreman's warmth the first familiar thing he knew he could appreciate.

While he would have liked to sleep the ride away, the demonic thoughts simply wouldn't leave him alone. Flitting through his mind, he couldn't understand. No new, nothing at all, had been the norm. His father never said anything. And yet the house was gone, the phone number defunct, everything fallen apart. And still nothing. The normal had slipped in the abnormal seamlessly. How had it been so easily missed, even if nothing had changed? His father had died, had left him the money from a house pending to be sold and he'd planned on calling. Been planning for a while, for the future. Years later and he might never have known.

The ring tone echoed in his ears, a memory of something that never happened. But the phone in his pocket was trying to vibrate out of his pants and Foreman was resting in just the right way to make it impossible to get at his mobile. Trying in vain to reach the folded bits of metal and plastic tucked safely into his pocket, his knuckles brushed Foreman's arm, Foreman's shirt. By the time he could reach the vibrating piece, he could have sworn the other man was running a fever, the heat that was growing against his side more intense than he remembered. The phone call was from Cameron, an excited and overeager message that House had solved the case while they were gone and god, Foreman's first guess had been right and apparently everything they'd done had been completely pointless. Which didn't surprise Chase in the least.

And once she was done explaining exactly what had gone wrong, what had gone right and a few minutes distraction on the topic of why-Wilson-was-sleeping-with-House-and-that-was-why-he-wouldn't-sleep-with-her, she hung up. Chase let himself relax, sliding the mobile back into his pocket, savoring the brush of Foreman's shirt against his knuckles. He'd gone through most of the nurses at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, most of the receptionists, interns and doctors as well. A few students had approached him, but fewer of them had caught of his attention. The touch of Foreman's shirt was softer than most of theirs.

The other man made a sound in the back of his throat, a snore and a moan in one. Chase frozen, fingers pressed white against his jeans and knuckles barely brushing Foreman's stomach. His breath came in mostly silently, reverse sigh as Foreman leaned away, head falling against the window. Chase found his hand was trembling again, thumb in his pocket and fingers almost vibrating against his jeans.

"Peanuts, sir?" The flight attendant bent over him, smiling widely and doing her best to brush the top of his head with her breast. He deemed them fake before she had a chance to place the food in front of his, a bag of peanuts and the red wine he accepted only too willing. She gave him another smile and brushed her hand against his, eyes lighting up when he started to lean away. He just smiled and nodded at her, keeping from swatting her away for Foreman's sake. The noise would surely have woken the other man and Chase didn't really want to deal with a bored Foreman in an airplane. It would have been as bad as House, save without the pill-popping and cane. Less painful, but no less annoying

The flight attendant swayed away, smiling pouting lips at him over her shoulder as she served middle-aged business men and elderly tourist couples. None of them thanked her, none of them smiled back as her eyes began to glass. She tripped over a child running through the aisles, parents smiling and cooing. No apology and Chase knew no one ever apologized. It didn't matter enough for that. His eyes closed and his head lolled against the headrest. His father was still dead. The house was sold, the phone number he didn't have was useless. No one to apologize to, no one to apologize period. People didn't apologize. They moved on with their lives.

People like Cameron apologized, hearts in their throats and tears in their eyes. They smiled at dying patients with an air of compassion, eyes wide. The promises of a new life teetered on their lips, whispered at night in confession. They grabbed at the latest technology as a solution, clung to the belief that life must be sacred. Chase had abandoned that as his mother had abandoned her life, clinging to the bottle as he clung to a stoic face and medical practice his father had wanted for him. Foreman solved the puzzles, solved the people and stepped back before he could care. Cameron cared and then solved the problems, if she even could. Her hands were always warm and felt too small when they touched bare skin. They'd slept together once, curled in his bed that was too big with her tears on his shoulder.

That could never happen again, her heartfelt apologies echoing through his apartment for hours afterwards. She'd given him a teary smile and begged for his forgiveness. All he'd been able to do was nod and watch her go. People didn't apologize. But she did, when she'd done nothing. And he thought he understood. Some people apologized because no one did. They proclaimed it to the world. They were different, special, sacred. Life meant something to them. Cameron had to see that people were cared for, come hell or high water or even reality. Nothing could change that. And so she apologized, begging forgiveness from people she could never wrong.

Foreman didn't apologize, not when he meant it. He'd nod, he'd smile. But Chase never heard the heartfelt apologies, the forgiveness that so many doctors seemed to need. House never did it, Chase certainly knew he didn't. Wilson teetered on a brink, held back by his hand on House's shoulder. He'd watched the other doctors smile at patients with terminal illness and wish them happy holidays, asking about presents as if it mattered. And the patients would cry about gift cards, tears in their eyes as they were as brave as if that even mattered at all. None of it could have mattered, not really.

And Foreman moved on his seat again, head hitting Chase's shoulder. The snort of hot air against his neck told him Foreman was awake. Their eyes didn't meet as the other man sat up, adjusting his collar and leaning back again. No apologies. No one needed to apologize. It was all unspoken if they meant it, tiny movements and the other had to understand. But Foreman wasn't sorry. Chase tucked one hand into his pocket, gripping the mobile tightly. His side felt cold. He shifted, fingers rubbing his thigh. The chair was too small, too uncomfortable.

A few moments and Foreman's head was back on his shoulder, warm and heavy. He sighed, letting his eyes close. There would be no apology for this. Foreman would wake up and lean away. Nothing awkward, nothing would change. Cameron would have wept, House would have lashed out, Wilson would simply have shrugged and smiled and stayed a bit away. But nothing changed with Foreman. He accepted and it stayed the same. Nothing was that important. No apologies, nothing more than a nod and it was all the same.

The plane was landing when he woke up again, Foreman's head still on his shoulder. A comforting weight he'd grown used to in fourteen grueling hours. It was something that wouldn't change and would never happen again. That was a comfort. It was warm and soft and something he'd never have to worry about. Everything else would change, would move to be something else, somewhere else. But this airplane would be soft and warm and Foreman's breath was warm against his neck, barely tickling over a day's worth of stubble. It was simple to sit there. His ears weren't popping, used to the landing after so long in the air. The touch of wheels to the ground woke Foreman, removing the head from his shoulder, the warmth from his body.

They were the first people off the plane, bags over their shoulders as they walked into a new day. No one was there to meet them at the airport, Foreman calling a cab while Chase told him about the miracle cure House had found completely without their help. It would have been an easier story to tell if Foreman hadn't found it outlandishly amusing and insulting, muttering under his breath as he tried to get a two stop cab. By the third time he'd messed up, Chase just shrugged and agreed to crash on Foreman's couch. He'd done it before, after 24 hour shifts they'd shared and sleepless nights up with Cameron. Testing viruses and one would leave their car at the hospital, go back and spend the night sleeping on the couch. Even the owner of the apartment rarely made it to the bed. And Chase had woken up with Foreman's feet in his hair more times than he could start to count.

By the time the cab got there, Chase was almost asleep again. Foreman was smiling and laughing at him, making comments he couldn't hope to refute. The difference betweens sleeping and thinking a full day's worth of plane rides was catching them. Chase just offered Foreman a glare and collapsed into the cab through a door that was held open by the closest thing to a gentleman he'd ever met. Foreman slid in the other side, kicking Chase's wet noodle limp legs out of his foot space and shoving the blond head onto his shoulder.

"Sleeping beauty awoke for no prince…" And Chase didn't even bother to listen to the rambling fairytale that insulted everything from his medical knowledge to the length of his dick. Foreman rambled on and Chase closed his eyes, doing his best to fall asleep. The continuing voice was offsetting, low and encompassing. He'd never fallen asleep to bedtime stories. His parents would turn off the lights and lock his door from the outside, promising his safety through a keyhole that just kept him inside and them outside and didn't protect him from their screamed words or the crash of pottery on a wall.

He only half-awoke when they found themselves at Foreman's building. Nothing save a cup of acid in his hair would have woken him by then, Foreman's hand on his shoulder warm and leading him up to the room. Deposited on the couch, he curled on his side and was asleep before Foreman returned to the room with two mugs of coffee and some chocolate breakfast cereal meant for kids. His dreams were about his father with chocolate brown eyes and a smile as dark and bitter as the coffee House liked. Foreman stood in the back, a packet of sugar in his hand and Chase didn't know why he was so scared to hear the other man whispering 'I'm sorry' to the magical indoor wind.

By the time morning was streaming through the window he was awake, cold coffee in his hand and Foreman sitting across from him. They didn't talk, read newspapers and listed off the words the other needed. Together five crossword puzzles got filled, leaving them with nothing to do but sit and read the news they'd already read, wondering how to leave without being awkward. Chase didn't want to go. He knew it was absurd to be comfortable there. His own apartment would be stark and bare and remind him of the money he'd get from his father's house. They'd always decorated in the same way, dark colors with a hint of cream accents and nothing personal to prove they lived there.

Foreman stood after a half-hour of absolutely pointless silence and wandered into his kitchen. Nothing was supposed to change. He never had to apologize because Foreman would never care. And it was just one moment Chase wanted, something to remember when he sat in his bare-walled home and wondered why it so resembled a hospital. His push off the couch was clumsy, hands clammy and cold. Foreman gave him an odd look, eyebrow quirked. It wasn't exactly an endearing move, reminding Chase of a scolding father and his mother passed out on the floor.

But he pressed his lips to Foreman's cheek. The skin was bitter and salty, smelling of coffee and newspaper and of ink. He never would have pegged Foreman as a pen chewer, though the faint black stains at the corners of his lips spoke otherwise. And it wasn't really a kiss, just lips and cheeks and no stubble at all on Foreman's face. Smooth, fresh, soft skin and Chase pulled away before he was French-kissing the other man's cheek. He didn't look up, tucking his jacket over his shoulder and grabbing the carry-on bag. Before Foreman could yelp or even start to respond Chase was gone, standing on the street and staring up the floors trying to remember which room he had been in. But he'd never been able to find windows from the outside.

The next day they sat next to each other in House's office, glaring at Cameron as she ever-so-sweetly apologized for solving the case without them. House just watched them and spun his cane. No apologizes. Chase glanced over at Foreman, keeping his eyes lowered. The other man would never ask for an apology. He would never offer one. The moment was frozen back in time and nothing would change that, nothing would solve that. He smiled, eyes and pencil falling back to the crossword puzzle. It would never matter again. But for that one moment, Chase knew where he belonged.


End file.
